Not all our readers, perhaps, have seen the Victoria Cross. It is not very beautiful nor very valuable in itself. A fac-simile of it appears at the commencement of this chapter. It is a simple piece of bronze, shaped like a cross, and its intrinsic value may be about threepence. Its intrinsic value! but who can tell the price a soldier puts upon it? He had rather have that piece of bronze on his breast than be made a Knight of the Garter, and have his banner hung up with those of the other K.G.’s in the Chapel of St. George at Windsor. To obtain that small piece of bronze of the value of threepence he will lead the forlorn hope, be the first to storm the breach, and ever ready to expose his life to any danger. The Victoria Cross is as much to a soldier as the _gage d’amour_ the knight-errant in the days of chivalry received from his lady-love, and swore never to part with. The pledge of her affection might be a soiled and tattered glove, worth even less than the cross “For Valour,” but it was dearer to her lover than life itself. O that the day may never come in this country when we shall judge of things by the Hudibrastic principle— “The price of anything Is just as much as it will bring!” for badly then will it fare with Old England. When our soldiers come to value their crosses at threepence each, the price they will fetch at a marine store, we shall not long survive as a nation. But there is little danger of such an eventuality. There are things—God be thanked—which we _do_ love and value more than life itself—things which gold can _not_ purchase. The Victoria Cross is one of them; and we are about to relate how three gallant officers of one of our most distinguished regiments came to be decorated with the priceless meed “FOR VALOUR.” One was a commissioned officer; the other two were sergeants. Though different in rank, they were equal in bravery; their bravery was equally rewarded. Most people—thanks to Mr. Kinglake’s history, and other sources of information—are now tolerably familiar with all the details of the Battle of the Alma. They know how the gallant Welsh Fusiliers, after forcing their way to the heights, and seizing the colours on the Russian battery, were so cut up by the enemy that they were forced to retire. They fell back in obedience to orders. It so happened, however, that as the word, “Fusiliers, retire!” was given, the Scots Fusilier Guards were charging up the heights, and the officer in command of them, hearing the order, thought that it was intended for his own men, and commanded them to fall back. This fact is not mentioned by Mr. Kinglake, but there are many witnesses still alive who heard this second order given, and acted upon it. Now, it is very difficult to retire before an enemy without falling into confusion; and it so happened that the Welsh Fusiliers came rushing down like a torrent. One gallant regiment opened their ranks, allowed